The Case of the Misplaced Dream
by Starrylizard
Summary: You never really remember the beginning of a dream do you? You always wind up right in the middle of what's going on.  Gen


Title: The Case of the Misplaced Dream

Fandom: Sherlock/Inception (Gen)

Author: Starrylizard

Length: ~1600 words

Notes: Thank you to Rinne and Merlins_sister for the once-over, especially since they've both yet to see Inception. This fic is really just a scene. Ideas and comments are most welcome.

* * *

The Case of the Misplaced Dream

_You never really remember the beginning of a dream do you? You always wind up right in the middle of what's going on. _

John Watson positioned himself more comfortably in his seat. His leg was troubling him slightly after so long sitting in one position. He looked back up at his table companion, feeling a little dazed, like he'd possibly missed a bit of the conversation, but he shrugged it off. After all, the hour was getting late and having dinner companions made such an interesting change - especially considering Sherlock's usual demeanour around a dinner table - that he wasn't about to ruin it.

"Nice restaurant; do you come here often?" The man across from him caught his eye and smiled.

The man in question was young and slender, sporting dark, slicked back hair with sideburns, and dressed in a fashionable – and no doubt expensive – suit. He had a distinctly American accent and was probably verging on his thirties, but his smooth features made it hard to guess at an exact age. He was sure Sherlock could guess by the style of his watch or cut of his jacket. He had the thought that he should ask his house mate later and then wondered idly when it had started to bother him – not knowing each and every detail about a person. Sherlock was rubbing off on him alright.

The man cocked an eyebrow and John realised he hadn't answered his question.

"Um." John took a good look at his surroundings. It felt so familiar, but… "I think so. I'm not quite sure," he finally admitted.

The man's smile grew a little wider as he settled himself back in his seat. "Feels familiar though?" he asked.

"You could definitely say that." John gave a sheepish shrug. "I guess I must have been here before, but I can't quite grasp as to when."

He glanced across at the next table where Sherlock was involved in quite the animated conversation with another man. Sherlock's companion was also besuited, but still somehow managed to look dishevelled despite the quality attire. Their conversation couldn't be heard over the general white noise of clattering plates and the laughter and conversation from the other patrons, but it was obvious that where Sherlock was excited – eyes flashing, hands waving about as he barely remained in his seat – the other man appeared quietly amused at the scenario. He was sitting quite still, relaxed back against the wall, as he answered Sherlock's many queries with short, concise answers. The man broke eye contact with Sherlock to give a friendly nod to John. He casually sipped at his coffee, before directing his attention back to Sherlock's animated questioning.

"What's familiar? If you don't mind my asking."

John thoughts were jolted back to his own table again by the younger man's voice. "Sorry, you must think me a right rude dinner guest. I think I've been hanging around Sherlock a little too much, to be honest. It's rusting up my social skills, um…" John paused. Surely they'd been introduced, but suddenly he was drawing a blank on the man's name.

"Arthur," the man graciously supplied, the amused smile still firmly in place.

"Of course, sorry. So, you asked me what's familiar?"

Arthur nodded and John unconsciously sucked at the inside of his cheek as he let his eyes roam about the restaurant once more.

"Well, take this table here, for instance." He tapped it for emphasis. "It looks just like the one in the Italian restaurant Sherlock and I frequent. Same annoyingly uncomfortable chairs, with the little nobbly bits on the sides. See?"

Arthur tipped his head and reached a hand down to feel the offending 'nobbly bits' on his own chair. "So you've been here before?"

"Well, no. The room's layout is all wrong for the Italian restaurant, and the waitress over there," John pointed to the tall blonde pouring a beer three tables to the right, "she works in the bakery at the end of our street. I'm quite sure of it. And those curtains…"

Arthur nodded. "Go on."

"Well, you'll think I'm mad, but they could have come right out of our apartment. In fact, you can even see the hole from the last time Sherlock got bored and started shooting things."

Arthur raised his eyebrow at that last comment, but only said: "Good."

"Good?" John asked. "Good? I tell you, we're sitting in a restaurant that has stolen our lounge room curtains and your response is _good_?"

"Look around us, again." Arthur leaned in and scooped up a couple of peanuts, peeling them while he waited for John to again take in his surroundings.

"Still looks the sa…" John started, and then paused. "Why is everyone looking at Sherlock?" For once Sherlock hadn't done anything in particular to draw attention to himself and yet every patron, every waiter, even the couple staring in through the window; they were all looking at Sherlock, and not in a particularly friendly way either.

"You're starting to sense the strangeness of it all and your subconscious is seeking out the foreign elements."

"The what?" John gave Arthur a curious look. A creeping feeling of wrong-ness was growing deep in his gut. A feeling that years of battle readiness had taught him not to disregard.

The restaurant had fallen silent. Almost every person in the room was now staring straight at Sherlock; the few who weren't glared at Arthur instead.

"How did we get here John? Do you remember?" This time, it was the second man who spoke. The one sitting with Sherlock.

"Well, we… There was… I did the shopping and…" John stood, turning in place, sudden anxiety gripping his belly. "What exactly is going on?" he asked; his voice quiet, but audible in the sudden silence.

Sherlock was smiling. "Isn't it brilliant, John?"

A big, stocky waiter, who was standing behind Sherlock, suddenly raised the wine bottle he was holding and made as if to smash it over Sherlock's head.

"Sherlock, no!" John yelped and opened his eyes to find himself sprawled out on an over-stuffed couch, in the living room at 221B Baker Street.

"So close!" Sherlock cursed, pulling something from his arm as he jumping up from the armchair. An armchair that had been shifted much closer into the couch than it usually sat.

"I told you. The unprepared mind accepts the dream state for far longer than most subjects, even with some subtle hints. You owe me fifty pounds, Sherlock." The man who spoke was the same man who had just been chatting with Sherlock in the restaurant, though his attire was far more casual now.

"Yes, yes, money, money, money. He was this close though, Cobb. This close." Sherlock held thumb and forefinger together in demonstration, before practically skipping across the room. "And I thought I was rubbing off on you John."

"Sherlock, and this is me asking nicely, what the bloody hell was that?" John asked, peering at two small pin pricks clearly visible on his wrist.

"You just experienced your first shared dream." Arthur was suddenly beside him, gently taking his pulse in such an unobtrusive manner that John had barely noticed him at all.

"Sherlock, did you just drug me?"

"Uh, yes, no, sort of. I was going to ask, but then I bet Cobb here that your subconscious could figure it all out and kill me in under five minutes. And you've never been completely opposed to my experimentations, so I hoped you'd…"

"I told you, we really should have asked the poor fellow." This from yet another man whose mannerisms all but screamed conman. "Though I do always find this part amusing. We're usually long gone by the time a mark wakes up and tries to figure out what happened," he added.

The man was kneeling as he packed something away in a briefcase.

"You've all got exactly ten seconds to tell me what the bloody hell is going on here or I'll show you amusing," John said. He deliberately kept his voice steady as he stood up and then cast his eyes over each of the strangers, and Sherlock, in turn.

"I like him," Arthur said.

"You would. He's got even less imagination than you," the man with the briefcase stated, finally clipping the case shut and standing casually.

"Excuse me, but did any of you hear me? What. Is. Going. On?" John stretched the sentence out until you could practically hear the crisp military full stops after each and every word. His patience was running thin and he was about ready to storm out on this strange situation if need be.

It was Cobb who finally brought an air of calm to the room; standing up in one fluid motion he suddenly offered John his hand. "We seem to have got off to a bad start here. Why don't we all calm down, take a seat and we'll explain all about what it is we do."

Across the room, Sherlock nodded and grinned, bouncing quietly on his toes and rubbing his hands together in abject glee. "You're going to love this. It took all my contacts to get these gentlemen here; at least hear them out."

John ignored the proffered hand, but did reluctantly retake his seat on the couch next to Arthur. "Alright then, I'm all ears." He waited.

"My name is Dom Cobb, you've met Arthur and that's Eames."

Eames waved congenially as he dragged one of the kitchen chairs over, flipped it around backwards and straddled it comfortably, leaning his arms on the back rest.

"We're experts at getting inside people's heads, specifically their dreams…"


End file.
